To the man who showed me the way to become who I am
(and to the girl who asks the right questions)

What about all those rings and bracelets you wear? Curiously enough, that was the first time I realised my rings and bracelets do have stories to tell, and that people might wonder what those stories are. It happened on one evening in that hectic summer of 2017, when a newborn, a new job and an international relocation had to fit together somehow. I was then having drinks with some of those who would soon be my new colleagues in my new hometown. It was a pleasant evening in Munich. The pizza was good, as was the beer (which was also cheap compared to Sweden). I was enjoying the company, the chatter, and the exchange of opinions on work matters; an extinguished cigar stub lingering between my fingers. She dropped the question just like that, out of the blue, from the corner of the table opposite mine.

News reports about the Paradise Papers investigations can be found everywhere, on the web and in more traditional news outlets. The importance of those revelations cannot be understated, as they expose widespread tax avoidance and wealth concealment on behalf of some of the wealthiest members of our societies, corporate as well as natural persons. Most of these activities are not strictly illegal, true. That something is not strictly illegal, however, does not make it necessarily acceptable in the eyes of most people.

Childhood memories stick around. They hide for years, under your skin, deep and out of view; but they’re always there. Some time ago, I found myself musing over breakfast wares at the supermarket, weighting options. An isle I’ve regularly perused, weekly or so, with nothing more noticeable happening than eventually making my mind up over one of the few “no palm oil” cereal boxes. Not on that day, though. That day, that ever un-chosen box, as innocuous and colourful a carton as it had always been, triggered something it had failed to trigger earlier. Memories are like tame beasts. They need just one wrong movement, a change of conditions, an inadvertent flash in the corner of the eye to go back to being the wild animal that will eventually go for your throat. It was maybe my daughter’s fault: by being born, she allowed my childhood memories to resurface so violently. Continue reading “Of coco-pops, bruises and mathematics”→

Istanbul, 28 June-4 July 2014In Istanbul, two Italians, a Greek, a Chilean, a Colombian and a Costa Rican all coming from Sweden and jumping in the same cab is definitely not an extraordinary or in any other way noteworthy fact. One might argue that in our mobile world we surely were not the first, nor will we be the last, or that it is not an uncommon thing to see elsewhere either. But different from many other cities, it feels like Istanbul has long ago given up taking stock of who walks her streets. Having embraced its millennia-old role as crossroads for thousands of people from everywhere in the known world, keeping track of what language they speak, where they are from, where they are headed and with whom, is just pointless. Continue reading “Istanbul, the meeting point of worlds far apart”→

Men and women have since long been using and transforming the territory. Campfires turned into forest fires, rocks and bones reveal graveyards or rubbish dumpsters, cave paintings turn barren rock into early day cathedrals. Then, diverted rivers, carved out hillocks and filled up marshlands leave room to quarries and roads, factory yards and heavy machinery. Seeds were sown, and roofs were built, each leaving a trace to mark the passage of those men and women through the landscape.

This project collects traces both ancient and recent of men and women’s presence on the territory, and the contrast of modernity coexisting with traditional ways of life. I am not a professional photographer and I don’t pretend to be one. Most of the pictures here were captured “on the spot” with whatever equipment I had available.

Across the Älv; Gothenburg, Sweden

Frozen river; Swedish Lapland

Fishing hamlet; Gotland, Sweden

Windmill; Gotland, Sweden

Nuragian settlement; Sardinia, Italy

Abandoned factory yard; Lombardy, Italy

The smell of a dying out cigarette bud, diesel and rail lubricant..a touch of Italy on a burning hot June afternoon..; Lombardy, Italy

It’s been a while since we moved abroad; or at least since we’ve been abroad on a stable basis. It won’t come as a surprise for anyone who has spent time in a different country to read that life changes radically once you take that step. No, I’m not talking about different languages, habits, culture, climate etc. that naturally come with moving. Rather, looking back over these past years it seems obvious how our lives with friends have acquired a more peculiar character. Continue reading “About friendship, and about distance”→